


Becoming Human

by jamaillith



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Gen, Implied Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1896000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamaillith/pseuds/jamaillith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two and a half years ago, George walked into Mitchell's life. Or perhaps it was the other way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Becoming Human

There is a part of George that's greatly comforted by the idea that something as innocuous and resoundingly normal as a bus stop can still exist after the night he's just had. Waking up in an overgrown cul-de-sac with no clothes on and blood everywhere, he's found, tends to skew your perspective somewhat. 

He's almost tempted to pinch the insides of his wrists to make sure he's not still dreaming, except he's fairly sure it won't work as he can't feel any of his extremities, let alone move them.

He drifts down the road, which is still and silent in the early morning air. 

There's a man at the bus stop, sitting with his back against the plastic wall and his wrists cocked over his knees. He looks about ten feet long, and possesses the unspoken air of someone who could be dangerous in the wrong circumstances.

Ordinarily, George would have kept his distance from such a shady individual, reasoning that the easiest way to find trouble is to walk towards it. 

But then, ordinarily, George does not spend Saturday mornings recovering from turning into a werewolf, so he feels he can take the risk. 

George perches on the end of the bench, his hands cradled in his lap like precious things. The man at the other end of the bus stop is wearing sunglasses, but George can tell he's watching him. 

After a while, the man says, in a slow and thoughtful voice; 'you've got blood on you, do you know that?' 

George, who has been waiting for something like this although he can't exactly reason why, perhaps because he's lived most of his life waiting for someone to comment on his appearance, lifts his numb fingers to his cheek. 

'No,' says the man, 'the other one.' 

George moves his hand to his other cheek. 

'It's not mine,' he says. 

'I know,' the man replies. He tilts his head. 'Aren't you cold?'

George makes a movement that could pass for a shrug. 

'Not really.'

'You're not wearing any clothes,' the man points out. 'And you're shivering.'

George shrugs again. 

'I'm okay.' 

The man considers him for a second, then leans forward and shrugs out of the black leather jacket he's wearing. He holds it out to George, who stares at it for a second before realising what it is. He takes it gratefully, and wraps it around his shoulders. It is only faintly warm, and smells like the inside of a pub. 

'So,' the man says, his voice still slow, still thoughtful, as if he has all the time in the world in which to speak, 'where are you going?'

George looks over at him, and blinks. He realises then that he's not wearing his glasses. 

'Going?' He asks. The man makes a languid gesture towards the road. 

'You're sitting at a bus stop. Ergo, you must be waiting for a bus. Ergo, you're going somewhere.' 

'Oh,' George says, and looks around, slowly, at their surroundings. The morning is clear and cold, the thin white sunlight just beginning to warm the bricks of the council estate that squats, sleeping, before them. Birdsong is the loudest sound for miles, accompanied by the low murmurings of a milk float making its rounds. There's a movie poster advertising 'Constantine' decorating the widest wall of the bus stop, and someone's scratched the word 'kaylie' into the plastic that covers it. 

'Where are we?' George asks. The man leans out slightly, and cranes his neck to read the sign above them. 

'St Vincent’s Road,' he replies. 'Dartford.' 

'Oh,' says George again, and falls silent, having run out of things to say. He tugs the jacket a little closer around his shoulders. 

'I'm Mitchell,' the man says, after a little while. He holds out his hand. Automatically, George turns and clasps it, his gaze skittering over the man's aviator sunglasses like an ice-climber seeking a hold. 

'George,' George offers. And, for no reason he can fathom other than that he is British and politeness is etched into the very core of his being; 'pleased to meet you.' 

The man- Mitchell- nods as if satisfied, then all of a sudden swings his legs around and unfolds himself against the cold blue sky. 

'Come on, then,' he says to George, who watches him mutely. Mitchell frowns, and reaches over to grasp George by the elbow and hauls him to his feet. 'Come on!'

'Where are we going?' George asks, pulling Mitchell's jacket around him like a shroud. Mitchell puts a companionable arm around his shoulders. 

'Back to my place,' he says. 

 

-

 

Mitchell's 'place' turns out to be a one-room flat above a tiny florist's shop that consists of a mattress, a sofa that looks like it saw better days sometime around 1965, a kettle, a black-and-white television, a pile of newspapers and a lot of cigarette ends. The windows have thin yellow curtains pulled across them, giving the light a rather buttery tint. 

Mitchell tells George that he's been there two weeks. George stands in the middle of it all, naked, cold, and a werewolf, and says; 'I like your curtains.' 

Mitchell glances over at them. 

'Yes,' he says, and smiles thinly at George. 'I do, too. Do you want something to eat? I think I have some bread left..' he turns slowly on the spot, 'somewhere.' 

'I don't know,' says George. 'I should really.. be going.' 

Mitchell glances over (and down) at him. 'You're in no state to be going anywhere,' he points out. George glances down at himself, and tries not to see the dried blood splatters on his legs and stomach. The blood that isn't his. 

'I think..' he starts. His voice cracks. He's shivering again, and suddenly he can't breathe. Something black and unforgiving rises up inside him. 'I think.. I think I-I-I th-think-' 

'Shh,' Mitchell says, and comes over to him. He wraps his arms around George and the sheer human kindness of the gesture knocks something free within him and George breaks down, crying on Mitchell's shoulder like he hasn't cried in years, clutching at him like a drowning sailor. Mitchell rubs his hand over George's back and mutters soothing nonsense and they stay that way for some time. 

 

-

 

It is only later, when George is sitting shrouded in an itchy woollen blanket on Mitchell's sofa, nursing a cup of hot sweet tea in his hands, that he realises there is something strange about the tall man. At first, he can't put his finger on it. He watches Mitchell as he reclines on the mattress with a cigarette and Friday's Sun, and tries to work it out. 

'You're very pale,' he says, at last. Mitchell looks up at him. He's taken off his sunglasses, and there's a wolfishness to his face that George finds appealing. 

'You're not exactly a bronzed Adonis yourself,' Mitchell replies, amused. George frowns.

'No.. there's something else. Something about you.'

'My ravishingly good looks?' Mitchell offers. George shakes his head. 

'My fabulous sense of style?'

'No.'

'Then what?'

George looks at him, and Mitchell looks back. 

'You're dead,' George says, at last. Mitchell chuckles and takes a drag on his cigarette, which he holds carefully, like a woman or a poet might. 

'Not quite,' he replies, folding the paper neatly in half and placing it on the mattress beside him. He turns around to face George, crossing his long legs in front of him. George feels he may have inadvertently triggered a life-changing moment, and instantly regrets it. 

'I'm a vampire,' Mitchell says, with dramatic finality. He pauses, as if waiting for George to say something like 'oh my god' or 'you're a what?'. 

Instead, George blinks. 

'Oh,' he says. And shrugs, and looks down at his tea. 'Well, fair enough, I guess, I mean, someone has to do it-' 

'George,' Mitchell cuts in, smoothly. George looks up. 'I'm a vampire,' he repeats. 

'But.. you were out in the daylight,' George points out. 

'Oh, that's bollocks,' Mitchell says with a wave of his hand. He takes another drag on his cigarette and breathes out a plume of smoke. 'All that- sleeping in coffins, burning in sunlight, crucifixes, garlic, blah blah. Bollocks. I mean, can you imagine trying to haul a coffin across London? Without being noticed?' 

'No.'

Mitchell points two fingers at George, like he's going to shoot him with an invisible gun. 'Exactly. It's impossible.' 

'Oh,' says George, discovering it's turning into something of a habit. 'So.. how do you know you're a vampire?'

Mitchell casually raises his free hand, fingers curled against his palm. 'One,' he says, raising his index finger, 'I'm dead.' He pauses. Considers. Shrugs. 'Ish. Technically. Two,' raises another, 'whilst I don't burn in sunlight, it does make me uncomfortable, hence the curtains-,'

'They're nice curtains,' George interjects. Mitchell silences him with a look. 

'Three,' another finger, 'I crave the taste of human blood. And four, I haven't aged a day since 1972, when I was bitten by a vampire on my way home from a concert.' 

'Oh, I'm sorry,' George says after a moment, feeling it's the thing to do. 

'Yeah,' replies Mitchell, frowning, raising his cigarette to his lips, 'the band was shit.'

'So.. what do vampires.. do?' 

'We're just like you- just like humans, really, when you get down to it. Except for the craving blood, technically dead part, you can't really tell the difference. I mean, you wouldn't have noticed, if not for your own.. situation.' 

George looks down at his tea again, feeling faintly sick. 

'I'd rather not talk about that, thanks,' he mutters. He can feel Mitchell watching him. 

'You're going to have to talk about it sometime, George. I mean, you're a were-'

'No!' George shouts, standing up suddenly from the sofa. The blanket slips off one shoulder and he clutches at it in a vain attempt to preserve his imagined dignity. 'No,' he repeats, 'I'm not.. one of them. I've just had a.. a temporary.. breakdown.'

Mitchell raises his eyebrows, his expression accusing. 

'I'm not,' George says again, with finality. He sits down hard. Mitchell eyes him for a moment, then sighs. 

'All right then, you're not a-,' George shoots him a look, 'them. But whatever you are, you're going to have to deal with it, sooner or later.'

'I'd rather it was later,' George mutters sullenly, plucking at the blanket. Mitchell rolls his eyes and takes another drag on his cigarette. He blows smoke at the ceiling. George watches him, feeling altogether miserable. 

'Come on,' Mitchell says finally, unfolding himself and rising to his feet. George looks up at him and wonders if this is going to become a theme of their conversations. 'Let's see if we can find something to fit you. You can't go walking the streets like that.' 

'Why not?' George asks, rising from the sofa. 

'Well,' replies Mitchell, 'for one thing, you look like a homeless person. A very dirty, very smelly homeless person.' 

'Thanks.'

'You're welcome.' 

 

-

 

George finds himself on the doorstep of the florist an hour later, wearing Mitchell's jacket, a t-shirt that's at least two sizes too small for him and a pair of Hawaiian shorts Mitchell was surprised to find he owned. 

'You look ridiculous,' Mitchell points out helpfully. 

'It's better than being naked,' George asserts. 'And covered in blood.' 

He'd taken care of that under the rusting tap out the back of the house. The water had been icy, and he'd washed his hands until they were red-raw and stinging but he felt it still wasn't enough. He'd wondered if it'd ever be enough. 

'Out, damn'd spot,' says Mitchell, with uncanny perceptiveness. 

'Who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him,' George quotes back, and shivers. 

'Indeed.' Mitchell glances over at him, and smiles. 'So, you'll be back here tomorrow?'

'Tomorrow?' asks George. 'Why tomorrow?'

'Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Because, my canid friend,' Mitchell says, patting George on the shoulder, 'we have business to attend to. And you owe me a drink.' 

'I do?'

'You do. I don't go lending everyone the clothes off my back, you know.' 

'All right,' George replies. He moves out onto the pavement, slipping his hands into the pockets of Mitchell's jacket. 'One drink.' 

'One drink,' Mitchell agrees, smiling. 

'I'll see you then.'

'All right.'

And with that, George turns to walk back down the street, back towards the bus stop. Mitchell watches him, the resolute figure, until he turns the corner and disappears from view. 

'All right,' he says to himself, and turns to go inside once more.


End file.
